


Pray

by my_lackof_romance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, angsty, no smut though sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:14:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_lackof_romance/pseuds/my_lackof_romance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Sam prayed. Never around Dean, and always under the cover of darkness in an empty room.</p><p>Dean didn't know until a night in a dark hotel room in Vermont.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pray

**Author's Note:**

> So. I did a thing. And I tried to make it sad, but it ended up being fluff. I'm such a fuckin sap. Anyway, this is unbeta'd, so I apologize for any grammar mistakes!

Sometimes Sam prayed.

It wasn't important. It was just…a thing.

A thing he, very pointedly, didn't tell Dean.

Most nights, it was when Dean was out at a bar. Getting drunk. Picking up a chick.

Sam grimaced. Picking up a chick, more than likely. A chick that would be able to know Dean in the one way Sam didn't. He used to be angry at these women, the ones that were so much better than him, the ones that could give Dean what Sam couldn't. But now, after Stanford, after Jess, after Dad—he couldn't bring himself to hate them. It was just another way he wasn't good enough for his big brother.

So Sam prayed.

"God," and he said the name like a swear word, almost, "I just wanted to, uh. Check in. I'm still down here, you know."At this he chuffed a short, pseudo-cynical laugh.

"Please help Dean," he blurted, in a rush of hot breath. "Give him what—give him the life he wants." Sam's voice cracked. "Please, please help me be good enough for him. I just want to be good enough."

Sam closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall of their hotel-of-the-week.

"I want to be good enough for him. And he's—he's so good. I love him so much. Please, just let him love me."  
Sam was talking out-loud now, his reverent whisper escalating. "He's so good. If there's anyone up there watching out for us, you know…"

And he broke off. Leaned forward and cried into his knees. Didn't bother saying amen, because what the fuck was the point anymore. No one was listening. Sam felt like a small child in the midst of the universe, a small child with big dreams that wouldn't come true.

This wasn't a normal occurrence. Normally, Sam would choke something out about helping through the bad before giving up, face burning with embarrassment. But he always valiantly tried again, the next time he had a few minutes to himself.

True to the un-normalcy of the night, Sam was mistaken when he assumed no one was listening.

Dean, these days, didn't much like the one night stands that used to come so natural to him. It felt…wrong, somehow. It just wasn't him anymore. He felt too old to be picking up chicks in a bar like some stupid teenager.

He sat at the bar, had one beer that he nursed until about ten, and then gave up and headed for the Impala.

Dean was just in time to hear his brother's quiet, tearstained monologue to heaven. He hovered in the doorway, chest siezing in pain. There was a giant size-thirty boot dancing a fucking jig on his heart.

It was dark in the room, no lights on, but a streetlight outside the one window in the room cast stripes across Sam. He was a dark shape on the other side of the far bed, head buried in his knees, back pressed up against the ugly wallpaper.

The most prevalent question, in Dean's mind, was What the fuck do I do?

Somewhere, a voice that sounded a lot like his mom told him to go and help Sam like a good big brother. Tell him that he was good enough, that he was a better man than Dean would ever be, could ever hope to be.

Some other part of him, sounding like his dad in the same way the other sounded like Mary, told him to turn around and let Sam deal with it. Don't complicate shit. Sammy was a big boy, and could take care of himself. Let him go on a bender, maybe gank a couple monsters with more force than was necessary to let out some of the pent-up emotions. Let it go.

Mary, forever the angel on Dean's shoulder, won.

"Sam," Dean whispered across the darkness. He reached to turn on the light, but it was a weird-ass hotel room with the light switch somewhere else, so he gave up altogether on it.

Sam looked up, his face looking a lot like he was six and had thought he lost one of Dean's favorite toys. He'd made this whole plan to run away instead of facing Dean and John about it. Dean had found him within minutes, and he was a mess, with his eyes all red-rimmed and tears streaking across his childish face.

Twenty years later, and Sam could still pull the same goddamn broken look.

Of course, as soon as he saw Dean, Sam started to withdraw. He hid behind his hair and pulled his knees closer, his expression guarded despite the fact that Dean could very obviously see him crying.

Dean was across the room in about three steps. "Sammy," he said, hoping Sam would tell him his name's not Sammy, it's Sam. He didn't. Instead, he flinched back, like he thought Dean would hit him or something.

Something broke inside Dean, and that giant boot was stomping the remains of his already-crushed heart. He couldn't find words, so he crouched down and reached for Sam, slowly, giving him every chance to push him away, tell him to fuck off, so Dean could pull him over and into his lap. They hadn't sat like this since they were very young, but of course Sam fit perfectly into him, like he was special-made for Dean's arms. Sam sniffed and made a little noise in the back of his throat.

"You're good enough, Sam," was the first thing Dean chose to address. "You're good. You're perfect." To punctuate his point, Dean stroked a hand down Sam's back, then back up over his hair, stopping to hold his brother's head to Dean's chest.

"Not," and he sniffled a little, "not good enough for you, not ever," Sam whispered, voice strained.

Dean's stomach churned. Where the hell was this coming from? Sam was always the better one, the one destined for better things, the—hell, the good one. "Sammy, no, I'm not—you're just biased," and it was true. Sam had put Dean on some kind of pedestal in his mind, probably. "You're worth everything I give you, and more. I love you, man." Sam stiffened under Dean's hands. He swallowed thickly, his tears making everything too-hot, too-sticky. Taking this as some kind of sign, Dean plowed forward with his giant chick flick speech. "I love you, so much—God, you're everything to me. I'm not me without you, Sammy."

Before he was even getting out the last syllables, Sam was crying again. Full-on, like there was no tomorrow, crying.

This, with good reason, scared Dean. He hadn't seen Sam cry like this when Jess died, not when Dad died, not even when he saw Dean again after hell.

"I j-just, I'm sorry," he managed, between sobs.

"Why?" Dean tried to keep the panic out of his voice, stroking Sam's hair with one hand and pulling his knees close with the other. This way Sam's head was right over Dean's heart; it was the only way that would calm him down when he was a baby. Not even Dad had been able to quiet him like Dean could.

"For-r this. For everything. I—I just keep hurting you, and myself, all because of—"

"Sam, what?" Maybe the heart thing wasn't such a good idea, because it was pounding with panic. Surely Sam could feel it.

"I just fucking love you, okay," Sam blurted into Dean's shirt. Dean opened his mouth to ask what the fuck that meant, but Sam beat him to it. "I mean, I'm sick, Dean. Really fucking sick. For wanting you like that. And I know the studies, how wrong and fucked-up it is, and—"

"Whoa, whoa, there, Sammy. Slow down." Internally, different parts of him switched places. The part that was panicking about _oh god what if Sam sold his soul or did something or is in trouble oh god oh god_ stepped down, took a back seat. The part that was panicking about _oh god I'm in love with my stupid fucking baby brother oh god oh god_ slid smoothly to the forefront of his mind. "It's okay."

Sam made a sound that was probably a sarcastic laugh. "No, it so isn't, Dean."

"It is," Dean insisted.

Sam picked his head up to look at Dean, see if his brother could possibly mean—

There was this look of total adoration on Dean's face, softer thanks to the lack of lighting in the room. It was too much, so much love conveyed through the set of his mouth, the way his eyes stayed steadily on Sam's face, no trace of hesitation. Sam's tears began to dry. "God, Dean—you—"

"Shh. It's okay, Sammy. I've got you." And he did. Dean had his brother, right where he belonged.

Sam prayed for different reasons after that night.

**Author's Note:**

> COMMENTS ARE LOVE COMMENTS ARE LIFE
> 
> Because I'm thinking of continuing this somehow and idk if I should. COMMENT YOUR OPINIONS, KIND BEANS


End file.
